Mario Silva - 02 - Buried Strangers Page 11

  “But Lucas knows how to find their shack?”

  “He does.”

  “Go for it. Call me when you know more.”

  HECTOR CALLED back three hours later. Silva told him to wait and went down the hall to where Arnaldo was working a telephone, calling cops at delegacias within a five-hundred-kilometer radius of the little town of Villasboas, trying to garner more information on anything that might remotely have been construed as ritual murder.

  Before Silva could ask, he said, “Nothing about corpses with their sternums sawn through. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Hector’s on the line,” Silva said. “Come back and listen.”

  “Sergeant Lucas took me to the Portellas’ house,” Hector said a minute or two later. “No luck. Nobody home.”

  “The neighbors?”

  “Here’s how it works: you got people who’re at home dur-ing the day and people who’re at home during the night. Most of the people at home during the day are lowlifes who’re sleeping off a drunk or a hard night of breaking and entering or drug dealing. The folks who are at home during the night are mostly hard-working types. The Portellas, by all accounts, are in that category.”

  “So somebody has to go back at night.”

  “Right.”

  “Not nice. Days are bad enough in those places, but nights. . . . Well, it can’t be helped. Somebody has to do it. Send Babyface. And tell him to bring a gun.”

  “I don’t think I’ll have to tell him,” Hector said.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  BABYFACE GONÇALVES LEARNED ABOUT the Portellas’ whereabouts the hard way—by getting hit on the head. The wound was painful, but it could have been worse. If his assailants had found his credentials, they would have killed him, that being the protocol for handling cops who stick their noses into favelas after dark.

  Fortunately, the two punks who came up behind Babyface simply mistook him for an easy mark. After they’d hit him behind the left ear with a lead pipe, they limited them-selves to patting down the places where people normally carried their wallets. When they found his, they took it and made themselves scarce. They never discovered the special pocket he used for carrying his badge and police identifica-tion card. And they never found his Glock.

  Unlike most cops, Babyface Gonçalves didn’t carry his gun where people could see it. He carried it in a special holster in the small of his back, which is where the woman who found him put her hand when she helped him to his feet. She pulled back as if she’d been burned and took two steps away.

  Babyface stood there, groggy, still tottering. For a minute, he thought she was going to run.

  “I’m not one of the bad guys,” he said, when he saw that her eyes had assumed the dimensions of saucers. “I’m a cop.”

  “Sweet Jesus,” she said.

  Other than the yellow glimmer of kerosene lamps shining through cracks around ill-fitting doors, the street seemed to be devoid of human presence. She sighed and seemed to come to a reluctant conclusion. “Alright, damn it. Come with me,” she said, her voice angry now, but scarcely more than a whisper.

  She led him through the mud and stopped at a hovel not twenty meters from where she’d found him. Like the other shacks lining the unpaved street, the place was built from scraps of wood and sheet metal. She reached into her purse, removed a key, and started fumbling with a padlock. A moment later, Babyface heard the squeak of rusty hinges. She pushed him ahead of her into the dark.

  Inside, it smelled of lamp oil, excrement, and urine. It was Babyface’s second visit to a favela and the first time he’d been under someone’s roof. He’d been told they seldom had electricity, almost never had indoor plumbing. The smells confirmed it.

  “Wait,” the woman said.

  He heard her strike a match. It flared, illuminating her face. She was black, white haired, appeared to be about sixty, not as tall as he was, but probably heavier. And she looked like she’d just taken a big swig of milk and found it sour. She lit the wick of a kerosene lantern and covered it with a glass chimney. Then she hung the smoking lamp from a hooked piece of wire suspended from the ceiling.

  “Sit,” she said, indicating a pile of coffee sacks.

  Babyface sank down. The contents of the sacks squeaked. He put his hand onto the jute and squeezed broken pieces of foam plastic. The jute seemed sticky.

  “Watch what you’re doing with that hand,” the woman said. “Get it off my bed.”

  He did as he was told and looked down. It wasn’t the jute that was sticky; it was his hand, bloody from the wound behind his ear.

  “You’re one hell of a mess,” she said.

  “They hit me,” he said. “Stole my wallet.”

  “If you really are a cop, you’re lucky they didn’t kill you.” She picked up a cloth, moistened it with water from a plastic jug, went around behind him, and started dabbing at his wound.

  “Ouch,” he said.

  “Should have left you where you were,” she said. She sounded less frightened, but no less angry.

  “Why?”

  She stopped her dabbing and walked around to look him in the eye.

  “Who do you think you’re fooling?”

  “Senhora, I appreciate your helping me, I truly do, but you seem to be angry about something and honest to God, I’ve got no idea what it might—”

  “No idea, huh?”

  “No.”

  “And never heard of the Comando Vermelho either, right?”

  “Comando Vermelho? Sure. They’re a drug gang, in Rio.”

  “In Rio and right here in Jardim Tonato, Senhor Policeman, and don’t tell me you didn’t know that.”

  “But I didn’t know that.”

  “And didn’t know either, I suppose, that they kill people who help cops? That they’ll kill me if they find out you’re here?”

  “No, I—”

  “Should have left you right where you were. Stepped right in the shit this time, I did. Good and proper. Umm-hmm. Really put my foot in it. What’s your name?”

  “Gonçalves. Agente Gonçalves. Federal police. And, at this moment, I don’t give a damn about the Comando Vermelho or their drug business. I’m not here because of them.”

  “No? Then why are you here?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

  “HE’S OKAY, ” Hector said, when he called his uncle at eleven the next morning to report on Babyface’s condition, “but he came out of it with a bump on his head the size of a walnut. I made him go to the hospital to have it looked at. They wanted to keep him there under observation, but he wouldn’t have it. Says he feels like a jerk for letting some lowlife punk get the drop on him like that.”

  “I guess they didn’t find his badge.”

  “Nope. Nor his gun either. He had it in the small of his back.”

  “Babyface is one lucky boy. I expect he knows that.”

  “He does.”

  “Did we get anything out of it?”

  “We did.”

  Hector told him about Babyface’s benefactor, whose name was Samantha Cruzeiro, and how she’d turned out to be a friend of Clarice Portella, the woman they were looking for.

  “Clarice,” he said, “has a younger sister who’s getting married. The two of them, Clarice and her husband, left yes-terday for the wedding. It’s way the hell up in Pernambuco. They’re supposed to be gone for two weeks.”

  “Merda,” Silva said.

  “From what Samantha told Babyface, Ernesto—that’s the husband—shares your sentiments. He can’t stand his wife’s family, and she had a hell of a time convincing him to shell out for the bus fare. Until the wedding came along—a some-what hasty affair as I understand—he had the money ear-marked for a down payment on a television set.”

  “What’s he do for a living?”

  “Works in construction.”

  “And the woman?”

  “A faixineira in Fazendinha, a different lady for every day of the week.”

  “Fazendinha?”
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  “A luxury condominium right next to the favela.”

  “Charming.”

  “Big fence all around it, big houses on the inside. Babyface went there directly from the hospital.”

  “Boy deserves a raise. Too bad there’s a salary freeze.”

  “A freeze that doesn’t seem to apply to directors’ salaries.”

  “Heard about that, did you?”

  “It’s all over the office.”

  “Here’s something to add fuel to the fire: Sampaio got it in exchange for a promise not to give a raise to anyone else.”

  “Filho da puta.”

  “One hundred percent. What else did Babyface find out?”

  “The guards at the gate are all moonlighting cops. They keep a list of day workers and the people who employ them. Turns out all of the ladies Clarice works for knew about the wedding, and all of them agreed to give her time off. None of them could give him a contact address or a tele-phone number.”

  “Not surprising. I can’t imagine any of them would call her for a chat.”

  “Samantha didn’t have any contact information either. It wouldn’t have made any sense. She can’t write, and she doesn’t have a phone. You want us to keep asking around?”

  “Probably a waste of time. Same thing applies to involv-ing the cops in Pernambuco.”

  “Yeah. By the time you get anything out of those yokels, you’ll be long retired,” Hector said. “Hell, come to think of it, I’ll be retired. We’ll just have to wait until the Portellas get back.”

  “I don’t think we have any choice. You left word for them to get in touch?”

  “With Samantha, at the condominium gate, and with every woman Clarice works for. Babyface also slipped a note under the door of the Portellas’ shack.”

  “How about that detective, Danilo? The guy who helped Tanaka bust the thug? You talk to him?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “He’s what?”

  “Dead. The PCC killed him the night before last.”

  The PCC, Primeiro Comando Capital, was another of São Paulo’s gangs, one that had its roots in prisons. Originally, they’d dealt exclusively with the interests of prisoners, lob-bying and threatening in an effort to get better food, more living space, less brutality from the guards.

  They’d gone on to resolving grudges with the law.

  There were now thousands of them, inside prisons and out. Over the past few years they’d killed almost a hundred cops and prison guards, shooting them down on the streets and even staging full-scale assaults on delegacias. Their weapons of choice were AK-47s and hand grenades, but they’d also been known to use light machine guns and rocket-propelled grenades. It was another step toward turning São Paulo into the most dangerous urban environment on Earth.

  “The PCC, huh?” Silva said. “Are we sure?”

  “We’re sure. They got the guy who did it. Took him alive and he confessed. Seems Danilo killed his brother in a fire fight about a year and a half ago. I don’t think there’s any relationship between what happened to Danilo and what happened to Tanaka, unless someone in the PCC also had a grudge against Tanaka. But, if there was, the guy they nabbed doesn’t know anything about it.”

  “Alright. So where are you going to take it from here?”

  “I’m going to talk to Tanaka’s wife. Sergeant Lucas said she’s the one who wore the pants in the family. If that’s the case, and if Tanaka was up to something—”

  “Which it sure as hell looks like he was.”

  “Which it sure as hell looks like he was,” Hector repeated, “then there’s a good chance Senhora Tanaka knew about it. I figured I’d better bring a search warrant along just in case. I’d be over at her apartment right now if I wasn’t waiting for it. Soon as I have it in hand, I’ll be on my way.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  IN 1957, A YOUNG ARCHITECT named Lucio Costa was given the go-ahead to start constructing Brasilia. He pro-jected his country’s new capital as a metropolis for the auto-mobile age, a place where roads and avenues flowed through tunnels and over viaducts, never once meeting at intersec-tions. The way he imagined it, there’d be five hundred thou-sand inhabitants and not a single traffic light.

  Half a century later, the population of Brasilia was two and a half million, there were traffic lights galore, and the dream of free-flowing traffic was dead, suffocated under a cloud of gasoline and diesel fumes.

  It took Silva forty-two minutes to cover the eight kilo-meters from his office to his home, a two-bedroom affair in a government-owned building. The apartment had been part of Costa’s original project and was considered ancient by Brasilia standards, but Silva liked the high ceilings and ample terrace.

  His parking slot was close to the service elevator, so he went up that way, letting himself in by way of a laundry room that divided the kitchen from the maid’s quarters. The quar-ters were entirely occupied by shelves lined with books. Silva and his wife, Irene, didn’t maintain a full-time domestic servant.

  They did, however, employ a faixineira. She invariably arrived after Silva had left for work, and left before he returned home. He was, therefore, surprised to find her sit-ting at the kitchen table.

  He was even more surprised to find his wife completely sober. It was almost ten minutes to eight, and if Irene had been running true to form, she would have downed enough cachaça by then to slur her speech. As it was, there was only an empty coffee cup in front of her.

  Silva kissed his wife, smiled at the faixineira, walked to the stove, and sniffed at the coffeepot. The coffee smelled fresh, but the pot was only lukewarm. He lit the gas.

  “Maria de Lourdes,” Irene said to his back, “has a problem.”

  The faixineira was a small woman, perhaps in her fifties, perhaps younger, a native of one of those states to the south of São Paulo—Paraná or Santa Catarina. Silva couldn’t remember which. Her full name was Maria de Lourdes Krups. If it had once been Krupps, which Silva suspected it had, the spelling had fallen victim to an ancestor’s illiteracy or per-haps to the ministrations of some careless clerk in a public registry office.

  And if her name-giving forebears had been Caucasian (like their illustrious namesakes, the armaments barons of Essen), Maria de Lourdes had lost that, too. She was a mulata with almond-shaped eyes.

  Silva’s coffee was now warm enough to drink. He shut off the gas, poured out a cupful, and took it to the table.

  “How can I be of assistance?” he said, somewhat formally.

  He’d been raised with servants and was comfortable with them as long as it didn’t involve sitting down for a chat. On the rare occasions like this one, he found it difficult to bridge the social gap, especially with women. Gardeners and drivers were easier. With them, you could always talk about soccer.

  Maria de Lourdes looked at her lap.

  Silva drained his beverage, and waited.

  “Go on,” Irene said to her cleaning woman.

  Maria de Lourdes looked at Irene and bit her lower lip.

  “It’s about her son,” Irene said. “He’s missing.”

  “That’s a matter for—”

  “No, it isn’t, Mario. I know what you’re going to say, and it’s not a matter for the policia civil. Listen to her story.” Irene turned to Maria de Lourdes. “Tell him,” she said.

  Maria de Lourdes took a deep breath, and then started talking in a rush.

  “I didn’t intend to trouble you, Senhor Mario, but I was talking to Dona Irene about it, and she said you might be able to help.”

  Irene reached out and offered Maria de Lourdes a sup-porting hand. Maria de Lourdes took it and squeezed. Unlike her husband, Irene had no problem befriending servants. Maria de Lourdes was squeezing hard. Silva could see his wife’s knuckles going white.

  “He always wanted to go to America,” Maria de Lourdes continued, speaking more slowly now, her eyes still on her lap, “always been crazy about American things: American music, American movies, even that stupi
d game where they throw the ball with their hands and knock each other down.”

  She stopped talking, as if she’d lost the thread. After a few seconds of silence, Silva gave her a prompt.

  “And?”

  “And that’s why he decided to sneak into the United States.”

  Silva got up from the table and went to the attaché case he’d left on the kitchen counter. Maria de Lourdes looked up when she heard the snap-snap of the latches, watched him as he took out a yellow legal pad, and followed him with her eyes as he returned to the table.

  “What’s his name?” he said when he’d resumed his seat.

  “Norberto. Norberto Krups.”

  “No middle name?”

  “No.”

  “Age?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Father’s name?”

  Maria de Lourdes drew her mouth into a thin line and shook her head.

  “Unknown,” Silva said, making a note, as he had when she’d responded to the other questions.

  “I’ll need a picture,” he said.

  She opened the hand that wasn’t gripping Irene’s and revealed a small photo, passport sized, the type that could be obtained from machines in bus stations. Damp with her per-spiration, the paper had begun to curl. She offered it to him. He studied the image.

  Norberto Krups’s skin was lighter than his mother’s, more milk than coffee in the café com leite. The kid’s hair was so badly cut that, if there were penalties for such things, his bar-ber would have been sitting in a cell somewhere. He was wearing a baseball cap with what Silva recognized as the logotype of the New York Yankees baseball team over his uneven shaggy hair. On his T-shirt a red heart acted as a sub-stitute for the English word “love,” and what Norberto Krups loved was New York.

  “Can I keep this?” he asked.

  Maria de Lourdes nodded.

  “I brought it for you. Dona Irene said you’d need one.”

  That confirmed Silva’s suspicion that the meeting with him had been some time in the making, but Irene hadn’t said a word about it. He shot a glance at his wife. She appeared to be studying a defect on the stem of her coffee spoon.

  He put the photo between two pages of his legal pad and waited for Maria de Lourdes to go on.